It’s early. She sits alone at the kitchen table, skimming through The Daily Prophet. Everyone else is still asleep and she enjoys the rare silence, broken only by the song of a morning bird.
Busy as they are, she loves the summer holidays. The house is always full of children and grandchildren, and their presence make her feel younger, more alive. There are picnics to plan, grazes to heal, and little red-haired boys (and a couple of girls, too) to rescue after they’ve fallen into the pond. Maybe her back aches a little when she goes to bed at night, but she wouldn’t trade these sunny days for anything. Besides, she has her husband to rub her muscles when they are sore.
Today is special. It is the birthday of her one son in law, and everyone will be coming to dinner – even her nomad son who, despite her wishes, quite refuses to give up on his life as a dragon keeper. Well, at least he’s still alive with all of his limbs more or less intact, so she guesses it could be worse. And she knows he loves his nieces and nephews, so perhaps if they are extra sweet tonight he might be tempted to start a family of his own… She smiles to herself, turning the last page of the paper. Nothing much of interest in there; these are peaceful days.
She drains her teacup and gets up, putting it in the sink. There is still something she wants to do before her family wakes up and start demanding her attention. From the great pile of Wellingtons by the front door, she summons her own worn, comfortable pair, and sticks her feet into them. The morning air is a bit chilly still, so she puts on a knitted cardigan as well.
There is a basket standing outside her greenhouse, and she picks it up on her way to the gate. The sun has just climbed past the treetops now, and the world is fresh and beautiful as she makes her way down the little lane. Every blade of grass is covered in dew, sparkling in the light, and swallows are flying in the air above. She takes notice of their high altitude; it means good weather, and it really would be helpful if they could sit outside tonight. Her family, while perfect in every other way, is a little problematic fitting into a single room.
Soon, she can see Ottery St Catchpole nestled between the green hills, and she heads for the little church. Not many Muggles are out and about at this hour, but she meets a few and smiles at them. If it weren’t for the cars and the red box where non-magic people call their friends, she thinks that this could well have been a wizarding village.
She has reached her destination now, and walks through the wooden archway that leads into the cemetery. Her Wellingtons leave a dark trail in the dewy grass as she passes lines of headstones, until she stands before the one that matters to her.
Over the years, the sadness has faded, ever so slowly. She doesn’t expect that it will ever really be gone, but at least she can stand before his grave now without her eyes brimming over with tears. She can come here for some peace, and she can think about all the bright memories of her son.
Knowing that the Burrow will be bustling with life before long, she sets to work. The flowers she planted below his name in early June have done their job of brightening his place of rest, so she pulls on her gardening gloves and pull them away. She has grown new ones to replace them, among others a miniature rosebush with bulging red buds.
She kneels on the ground as she works, and the sunlight is warm on her neck. The air is fragrant and she breathes it in with delight – what a wonder it is to be alive! In moments like these, she feels as though her son is still around, still a part of her life. She can sense him in the breeze and the birdsong, in all the little drops that sparkle on the grass and in the very earth she walks on. He is everywhere now, in herself and in all his family back at the house.
“Morning, Mrs Weasley!”
She turns around, and returns the greeting of old Mr Blomfield. He comes here every day, to sit for a while at the bench by his wife’s grave. As she puts the last flowers into place, Molly wonders if she will be like him in twenty years’ time. But she doubts it; by then she will probably have great grandchildren and even less time to spare.
Smiling to herself, she gathers up her gardening tools in the basket and gets up. She waves at Mr Blomfield as she leaves the sunny graveyard, while pondering on what to make for breakfast.